


Putting Down Roots

by AgentStannerShipper



Series: Growing a Garden [1]
Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Gardener!Harry, Harry is socially awkward, M/M, for a fic about hooking up there is surprisingly little sex, like a lot, like no sex at all, sculptor!Merlin, they just talk about it a lot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-19
Updated: 2018-03-19
Packaged: 2019-04-04 10:31:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14018325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgentStannerShipper/pseuds/AgentStannerShipper
Summary: Harry is a bit of a recluse. He runs a boarding house in the country, but he spends most of his time in the gardens avoiding people. If he doesn't get to know them, it doesn't hurt when they leave.Enter Hamish "Merlin" Grey, a sculptor who's very interested in getting to know Harry. And not just biblically, either.





	Putting Down Roots

**Author's Note:**

> I don't really know what this is. I'm still not a huge fan of it, but I wanted to do something for the Painted Petals Fest, so here you go. I hope you guys like it more than I do.

Harry doesn't talk to the guests.

It's not that he wouldn't like to, because he is, at heart, a very social person, but it's hard. Getting attached to the people who wander in and out of his life is hard, because no matter how long they stay, they always end up leaving, and Harry hates that part. He hates it when people leave. Not to mention, he’s been told before that he’s a bit odd, and of the few people he let under his skin at some point or another, most thought he was too strange to stick around for long. So he’s structured his whole life around ensuring that he only allows people in a little bit, forming fleeting connections that keep him safe from heartbreak, even if they leave him wanting more.

Eggsy has told him more than once that if he didn’t want to get attached to people who were, by definition, going to leave, then he shouldn’t be running a boarding house, but Eggsy also thinks that Adidas sneakers can go with certain suit cuts, so what does he know? At least this way, Harry gets to know people for a little while. He gets to satisfy that social craving without having to put himself out there. He can’t be rejected if they have to come to him.

He likes having Eggsy and James on staff, and not just because he considers them friends. They’re both more social than he is, or possibly just better at letting go, but either way it’s handy to have the middle men. To have someone to deal with the guests when Harry feels like he can’t. Between the two of them, the guests are kept plenty entertained and accommodated. Harry doesn’t have to get involved. He can just watch.

When he’s not watching, he’s usually in his gardens.

They’re the real reason he still has the house. He inherited the property from his parents when they passed away about twenty years ago, and he adores the grounds, loves the sprawling gardens and groves, and especially the butterfly garden at the very back of the property, just before the woods begin. The air is crisp and clean, easier on the lungs than the haze of London, and he spends as much time outside as he possibly can. But keeping a property like this isn’t cheap. Hence, boarders. A lot of people are willing to pay a lot of money to escape the city for a little while, to reconnect with nature or reaffirm relationships or write that novel they’ve been trying to finish.

He has a rule about weddings, though. He doesn’t care how high the offer is - and there have been several very high offers indeed - wedding parties have to be kept to ten people or fewer if they want to use the house and grounds. Any bigger and it would disturb the other guests, not to mention the butterflies.

And Harry hates weddings.

Well, that’s a lie, he loves them, adores them with all his heart, but it’s so very hard on him to get to see such a monumental snapshot of other people's lives and know that he’ll never be more than a face in the background. So he lays down the size requirement to deter people, and for the ones it doesn’t deter he can keep out of the way and let James handle everything himself.

James is good at weddings. He’s had three himself, although he says two of them don’t count.

“Marigold was a lovely woman,” he says, “but I’m gay, so marrying her hardly counts. And Christian wasn’t a legal wedding, not even for a civil partnership, and you know I don’t much go in for religious ceremonies.” He does not have the same sort of arguments for Thomas, who he says was just a bad decision altogether.

At any rate, it makes him an amazing wedding planner.

Harry just prefers it when the wedding goers avoid the butterfly garden. Guests can go wherever they like, but Harry enjoys the quiet solitude - well, not enjoys per se, but it safer than the bustling house - and he’d rather if they did join him outside it’s on their own or strictly in pairs. Pairs is best, really. One urges him to go forward and strike up a conversation and three always feels more like an open invitation. To approach two would be intruding on a private moment.

So he mostly watches. He doesn’t like watching, but it’s better than getting attached. This way, it’s more like watching a soap opera unfold than actual human lives.

He can recognize most of the current boarders by sight, especially the ones who have been here a while or who keep coming back. Alistair Morton is one of his particular favourites, the closest a boarder has come to becoming a friend. Well, he is a friend, really. Practically family, if Harry is being honest with himself. He’s a writer, one of those supposedly working on their next novel, except his novel has been in process for nearly five years now, and Alistair hasn’t left once in that time. Halfway through the third year, Harry struck up a shy and tentative friendship with the quiet man. James didn’t both to wait that long – or even a week - and Alistair has long since given up pretending he doesn’t enjoy James’s shameless flirting, even if he still won’t take James up on the offers. Harry expects, sooner or later, James will be planning their wedding, hopeless romantic that he is. Harry saw a scrapbook in his room once, but he only got a brief look, and James resolutely denies its existence.

Besides Alistair, there’s Roxy and Olivia Morton-March, a pair of young newlyweds on a very long (currently into the second month) honeymoon, courtesy of their families - Alistair is Roxy’s uncle - who recommended Harry’s place to them. There’s James “that might be confusing so you can call me Tequila” Walker, a former-rodeo-clown-turned-personal assistant to a software designer/engineer/doctor called Ginger, both of whom are here on what Ginger calls a company retreat and Tequila calls professional time-out.

And there are others, but they keep to themselves, and anyway, they haven’t been around long enough for Harry to risk getting attached, or else they’re leaving soon so he won’t have to worry anymore.

Harry may not talk to any of them much, but he listens. He hears quite a bit, actually, and probably more than they want him to.

For example, he can hear his newest guest swearing very violently in a thick Scottish accent about two hedgerows over from him. The man had introduced himself as Hamish, and the last name on his booking is Grey, and that’s about all Harry knows about him from the two days he’s been here so far. Hamish keeps to himself for the most part, but Harry has caught him in the butterfly garden, crouched on the dirt path and watching the bushes intently, so still he’s hardly breathing.

At least he respects the butterflies. Harry has a great deal of admiration for any man who cares about the creatures as much as he does, and it would be worrying, because that’s the sort of man Harry could very easily see himself becoming attached to, if it wasn’t so endearing. JB even seems to like him, and Eggsy’s pug has very fickle taste. Well, fickle for a pug. He’ll roll over for belly-rubs from just about anyone, but Eggsy also told Harry that JB went out looking for Hamish last night.

“How can you tell he went looking for him?” Harry had asked.

“Because I found him in Hamish’s room, and apparently he sat outside the door and whined for an hour until Hamish took pity on him and let him in. It’s been a day, and I swear he loves Hamish more than he loves me.”

JB loves Eggsy an awful lot, so he must really like Hamish if he’s giving Eggsy reason to think that.

Harry peers over the hedgerows. They’re not very tall and he can just see the top of Hamish’s bald head, so the other man must be stooping. Harry can’t tell what prompted the swearing, but he’s intrigued to say the least.

He creeps along the rows, turning the corner just in time to nearly run into Hamish, who had stopped swearing but now does so again as he reaches out to steady Harry, “Fuck, I am so sorry.”

Harry blinks at him, eyes wide, and it takes Hamish a minute to realize who he’s talking to, because he takes a step back, releasing Harry like he’s been burned. “Sorry,” he repeats, and then heads back towards the house without so much as a backwards glance.

As he watches him go, Harry thinks he might be slightly fucked.

***

“I know that face,” James says over dinner. He grins, propping his elbows disgustingly on the table as he leans forward. “What happened?”

“Why do you assume anything happened?” Harry asks stiffly, glaring at James until he removes the offending elbows and puts them back where they belong.

“Nah, he’s right,” Eggsy stabs at Harry with a fork, gesturing in the air, and Harry turns the glare on him. Apparently everyone has decided to forgo table manners tonight. “I ain’t seen that look since I got JB and you decided to adopt him.”

“He’s your dog!” Harry protests, as if he doesn’t know he dotes on JB almost as much as the late Mr. Pickle. “I haven’t adopted him.” JB snorts and snuffles against Harry’s leg, and Harry feeds him one of the dog treats he keeps in his pocket.

Eggsy gives him a pointed look, and Harry shoots one right back.

“Face it, Harry,” James tells him. “You have an ‘it’s cute and I want to keep it’ look. So who was it?”

Eggsy snaps his fingers, “It was Hamish, wasn’t it? He’s just your type, isn’t he?”

“And how exactly would you know what my type is?”

“Your type is tall, handsome, and probably able to bench press Eggsy if he put his mind to it,” James says. “Or at least able to pick you up and pin you to a wall. Have you seen him doing yoga in the mornings? Mmm.” He gets a dreamy look in his eyes.

Eggsy coughs, “You know, I’m sure Alistair would love to hear that you’ve been ogling Hamish’s abs.”

James looks abruptly horrified, “No!” He sniffs, “And it’s not just his abs. His chest and arms are also very aesthetically pleasing. In a distant, not actually all that interesting sort of way.”

Harry laughs, but before he has a moment to be pleased that the conversation has swung away from him, Eggsy brings it right back, “James is right, though. He’s exactly the sort of bloke you’d pick to shag your brains out.”

Harry feels offended, “Are you suggesting-”

“I think he’s suggesting that you need to get laid,” James cuts in, “and Hamish seems like the perfect candidate. It’s sad, Harry. Your agoraphobia-“

“I do not have agoraphobia,” Harry retorts. “I just…don’t like prolonged exposure to people, is all. It never turns out well. And have you considered the fact that maybe I’m not interested in having unattached sex with a near stranger?”

James knew Harry in the late eighties. They met in a club after Harry had shagged a bloke in the bathroom – James had been washing his hands when Harry had come out of the stall, and he’d offered Harry his wry congratulations. Harry will be the first to point out he’s settled considerable since those days, but James knows him, and he knows that Harry hasn’t changed that much. So: “Yes, I considered it. And no, I don’t think that’s true. I think you want him.”

Harry does. But that doesn’t mean he should. “He’s a guest!”

“Details,” James waves a hand.

“It’s unprofessional!” Harry protests. “He could...I don’t know, think I expect something. Like it’s a condition of him staying here. I wouldn’t want him to get the wrong idea.”

“Look, don’t come on to him now, yeah?” Eggsy says, “but he’s only gonna be here like a month, yeah? Chat him up a bit, feel out if he’s interested, and then when he’s ready to leave you can ask. If he ain’t interested, then he’s leaving anyway so it ain’t like you would have to avoid each other.”

“Brilliant plan, Eggsy,” James praises, “but there’s one tiny flaw in it.”

“What’s that?”

James grins slyly at Harry, “It involves _talking_ to him.”

Harry groans and thumps his head loudly against the table.

***

“Good morning, Harry!” Roxy calls across the lawn. She has a picnic basket on one arm and Olivia on the other. “Off to see the butterflies?”

Harry nods, but he doesn’t respond, and Roxy doesn’t press him further as Olivia tugs her towards the duck pond. Harry isn’t quite sure how to feel around Roxy. On the one hand, she’s a guest, and they always leave. On the other, she’s Alistair’s niece, so there is a very high chance he’ll see her again, if only for James and Alistair’s wedding. Whenever that will be.

It’s happening. He’s convinced.

The butterflies look much as they always do. Harry checks on the feeders, making sure they’re full, and looks in on the more popular resting sites, where the butterflies tend to gather.

That’s how he comes across Hamish, sitting cross-legged with a notebook on his lap, his lip caught between his teeth as his eyes dart between the page and the butterflies. Harry resists the urge to look over his shoulder, but just barely.

He stands there in awkward silence for a moment, unsure if he should say something or just walk away. Then Hamish looks up and nearly falls over, a hand flying to clutch at his chest as he gasps, “Fucking hell, don’t sneak up on people like that.”

“You swear a lot,” is the incredibly smooth, witty thing Harry thinks so say.

Hamish hesitates, looking surprised, and then gives him a little half-smile, “A little swearing is good for the soul.” He unfolds himself, and Harry’s mouth goes dry because Hamish is all long limbs and broad shoulders, and he’s wearing a jumper right now but contrary to James’s belief, Harry _has_ seen Hamish doing yoga - shirtless and in jogging bottoms that hang low on his hips - in the morning, and he knows what exactly Hamish is hiding under his clothes. It’s a semi-unwelcome reminder of how long it’s been since he’s had sex.

It occurs to him that Hamish has said something else only when the other man lifts an eyebrow, and Harry turns bright red and stammers, “Sorry, I didn’t catch that?”

Hamish’s smirk widens. “I said, I thought you didn’t talk to guests. Or approach them, or have anything to do with them, really.”

“Whatever gave you that impression?” Harry says, and instantly feels like a posh idiot. Apparently words are not his strong point today. Not that they are any other day.

“That’s what James told me. When I checked in. Said I shouldn’t bother trying to have a conversation with you, that at best you’d make small talk for a minute, and that you’d run at the first chance you got.” His eyes flick to the garden path behind Harry and then back to him, “But you’re not running yet.”

“No.”

They stare at each other a minute, and Harry squirms in the silence. Hamish doesn’t seem nearly so affected. Just for the sake of something to say, Harry blurts out, “Your notebook.”

Hamish tilts his head, “What about it?”

“Were you drawing the butterflies?”

Hamish nods, “Would you like to see?”

It’s Harry’s turn to nod, and Hamish flips the sketchpad open to the page he was working on, a series of rough sketches, none quite complete, scattered across it.

“These are very good,” Harry tells him, because that seems like the sort of thing you’re supposed to say. He doesn’t actually have much of an eye for art himself, so he’s not going to pass judgement.

“They’re not bad,” Hamish says. He twists the book, examining it from a different angle. “They’re not even really art yet. More like...the precursor to the precursor to art.”

Harry frowns, and Hamish chuckles softly and hangs his head, looking up at Harry in a manner than might seem shy if it didn’t seem so deliberate. “I don’t draw,” he says. “Or paint, or do anything two-dimensional, really. I’m a...sculptor, I guess. I make sculptures. Sort of. So the drawings aren’t really my art. They’re just the first step of a rough idea that I’m trying to work out.”

“Is that why you’re here?” Harry asks. “Working out your idea?”

“That’s part of it, aye.”

There’s silence between them for a moment. “That’s why Alistair’s here, too,” Harry says without thinking, because he doesn’t know what else to say and he doesn’t want this moment to be over. People tend to leave when he gets quiet, so he needs to fill the silence with something. “A lot of people come here to work out ideas that have been buzzing around in their brains. I think it must be the fresh air.”

“Oh, I think any change of scenery would do,” Hamish counters. If the awkward pause had any affect on him, Harry can’t tell. “Nothing like seeing somewhere new to change your perspective. But this is a nicer place to do it than most.” He grins, “Who knows? Maybe it is the fresh air.”

“So you’re enjoying your stay?” Harry asks. “Not missing anyone back home or…?” He wants to smack himself. It’s been a very long time since he’s had any sort of romantic tryst, and he’s fairly certain he’s failing spectacularly. It’s not just that Hamish is very attractive and Harry definitely is interested in bedding him; it’s been a long while since he’s had sex but it’s been far longer since he’s had true companionship, someone who stayed longer than a night or two. He’ll always want the latter, but he knows the former is the best he can hope for. He’ll take whatever he can get.

Still, Hamish doesn’t look put off by Harry’s strange trains of thought. He tilts his head again, looking intrigued. “Aye,” he says slowly, “I like it here a lot. And no. I’m not missing anyone.”

“Oh.” Harry flushes. “That’s…”

“Do you have a place I can use a blowtorch?”

Harry blinks, “I’m sorry?”

“It’s a small one, I promise.” Hamish grins at him as he stares. “If you don’t, it’s fine. I can work on the concept more after I leave. But it would be a lot better for the project if there was a space available. I like to be hands on as early in the process as possible.”

“I’ll talk to James,” Harry manages. “He does most of the coordinating. There’s a structure on the other side of the garden. It used to be a tool shed, or a garage or something, I think. I’m sure we could fix you up in there.”

“That’d be perfect,” Hamish says. “I’m completely willing to pay extra if you’re worried about insurance or-”

“It’s fine,” Harry cuts him off. “I trust you not to burn the house down. Besides,” he jokes, “you’d be a bit too far away for anything important to catch on fire.”

Hamish laughs and shakes his head. “You’re strange,” he says.

Harry feels like he’s been doused with ice water. He takes a step back. “Oh,” he says. He studies the ground between them, eye contact abruptly too much for him. “Right. I should…” He flees, Hamish’s eyes drilling holes into his back as he goes.

***

“Eggsy, if you would kindly stop flirting with the guests, we do have a reputation to uphold,” Harry says as he enters the room.

“He was flirting with me!” Eggsy protests. “And besides, you never tell James to stop flirting with Alistair.”

“First of all,” Harry says, “I have in fact told James to stop flirting with Alistair many times. Secondly, I stopped because Alistair has been here for years, and he’s proved fairly receptive to James’s flirtations.”

“And Tequila is receptive to-” Eggsy stops as Harry arches his eyebrows, catching his wording just in time. He shuffles his feet.

“Tequila is going to be leaving soon,” Harry tells him gently. “Not just back to London, but home to America. That’s very far away.”

“We don’t live in the Dark Ages,” Eggsy mumbles. “There’s Skype and shit.” But he doesn’t sound like he fully believes himself.

Harry rests a hand on his shoulder. He loves Eggsy like a son, or perhaps a much younger brother, and he knows all the pitfalls of a life like this. He doesn’t want Eggsy falling into them. “Don’t get attached.”

“But I like him.”

“I know,” Harry says. “But in the long run, you’re only going to know him a month or two, and then he’ll be gone like everyone else. If he were to stay as long as Alistair has, I might encourage you, but as it is...I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

“What about Hamish?” Eggsy asks. “You’re chasing after him, and he’s leaving in a month.”

“It’s different,” Harry says. “And I’m not chasing him.” He doesn’t know where to stand with Hamish. Running away from him feels fairly definitive. And he’s never been called strange by anyone who intended to stay long after the words were uttered.

“How is it different?” Eggsy demands.

“Because I’m not looking for a relationship,” Harry tells him. The words aren’t as bitter as he feels. “Don’t ever tell him I said this, but James is right. It’s been entirely too long since I’ve been with anyone, and Hamish is...well he’s attractive and I’m interested in him. And if he’s amiable, there’s no harm in that. I’m not expecting to settle down with him.” At this point he’s not even positive Hamish will be receptive to one night, much less anything more.

“And I’m not expecting to settle down with Tequila,” Eggsy argues. But he also deflates. Tentatively, he asks, “You really don’t want anything more from Hamish than a shag or two?”

“Not especially,” Harry tells him. The words hurt. He’s a romantic, not so much so as James but a romantic nonetheless. He doesn’t much like the idea of getting off and getting on with things. Never has, no matter what his track record looks like. But he’ll be lucky to get this. If he can, he’ll be satisfied. Probably.

***

“Harry?”

He nearly jumps out of his skin, fighting to get his breathing back under control as he turns around and presses his back to the workshop door. “Roxy. Olivia. Hello.”

Olivia tries to peer around him, “What’s in there?”

“Nothing of importance,” Harry says.

Roxy elbows her wife and grins, “Alistair told me that Merlin is working on his latest project in there.”

Harry frowns, “Merlin?”

Both women ignore him. Olivia looks mock-outraged, “And he didn’t tell me about it?”

Roxy wraps her arms around Oliva, “He doesn’t tell you everything, you know. Come on. Let’s leave Harry to his spying.”

“I’m not-” Harry doesn’t get the opportunity to finish his protest before the women are walking away from him. He sighs, then summons all his courage and pushes open the workshop door.

It’s dimly lit inside, all the lights clustered around the bench Hamish is bending over, and Harry is not staring at his arse, thank you very much. Hamish has papers laid out all over the table, held down by little bits of plastic and wires, and he skims back and forth between them, making notes without looking at the paper beneath his hand. Harry clears his throat.

Hamish looks over his shoulder, “Harry. This is a pleasant surprise.” He even sounds like he means it. He sets his pencil down and turns around properly, “What brings you out here?”

“Just checking to see if you’ve settled in alright,” Harry says. _To see if I’ve scared you off yet_ , he doesn’t say.

“Really?” Hamish arches his eyebrows. “Didn’t seem all that important to you when I first arrived and was settling into my room.”

“Yes, well, I didn’t know you were carrying a blowtorch then,” Harry jokes. It makes Hamish laugh.

“Don’t have it in here right now,” he says. “Still in the sketching stages.”

“Could I see?” Harry asks. “Or, it’s alright if not, I know artists can be particular-”

Hamish beckons him over, and Harry cuts himself off and joins him by the workbench. Pages from the notebook are there, and bigger sketches too, some drawn as clearly distinguishable butterflies and others more block-like in shape. Harry picks up one of the bits of plastic and examines it. “This is part of a circuit board, isn’t it?”

“Aye. It’s sort of my trademark,” Hamish tells him. He looks almost confused.

Harry sets it down again. “Do you know Olivia Morton-March?”

Hamish’s confused frown deepens, “Of course. She used to work for me, before she went on to bigger and better things. She’s like family. Why?”

“No reason,” Harry says. “Just a comment Roxy made.” He pauses, “She called you Merlin.”

Hamish chuckles, “Well, yeah.” When Harry doesn’t join in, the frown returns, “Sorry, do you really not know who I am?”

“Should I?”

“Most people do.” He pauses, and then looks sheepish, “Well, that sounded a bit egotistical of me. I just mean, I’ve been on a lot of magazine covers lately. That breeds a sort of familiarity, even if it’s a shallow one.”

“I don’t read the tabloids,” Harry tells him. “Don’t even look at them. I’d have to go into town for that, or borrow them from Eggsy or James, and I really can’t be bothered.” Town has been challenging for him as of late. It’s not agoraphobia, no matter what James says. It’s just exhausting, being around so many people and so much noise. Not to mention the pollution, which makes him lightheaded.

He leans against the workbench and studies Hamish. “So,” he asks curiously, “who exactly are you, then?”

“Like I said, I’m a sculptor,” Hamish says. “Merlin is just one of those stupid nicknames you get in the press, you know? From ‘tech wizard.’ I do a sort of modern art-type sculpture. I take manmade technology, like computers and things, and I break them apart and make animals. Bits of nature.”

“Highly symbolic, I suppose.”

Hamish laughs, “So they tell me. Truth be told, I just like animals. And computers. And building things. Why not make a living out of what you love, right?” He gestures at the sketches, “I’ve mostly worked with large pieces. Big animals, panthers and things. I wanted a bit of a challenge. So I’m making a mechanical butterfly garden. Butterflies are small, delicate.” Harry startles when Hamish’s hand touches his own, looking down as Hamish strokes his fingers gently over the backs of Harry’s knuckles. He looks up again, and Hamish is watching him, his eyes sharp and piercing, but surprisingly warm. “If I can build them out of such unwieldy parts, I can build just about anything.”

“Well, I hope you’re good with your hands then,” Harry says stupidly, and then kicks himself. His head has gone a bit fuzzy. He thinks he’ll blame Hamish’s eyes for it.

“Very good,” Hamish promises him, his voice low and rough. “Maybe I’ll show you sometime.”

“Er…”

Hamish pulls away, “I’m sorry.”

“What? Why?”

“I shouldn’t have-“ Hamish cuts himself off. “You ran away from me. That’s a pretty clear signal.”

“That wasn’t you,” Harry tells him awkwardly. Well, it was, but it’s more complicated than that. It’s strangely satisfying, knowing he’s not the only one who feels like he’s getting mixed signals. “I’m just…strange.”

Hamish’s lips quirk back into a grin, and he leans in, his brogue returning to that low purr, “You really are.”

***

Harry slams the door shut and presses his back to it, breathing hard. “Help. I think he’s seducing me.”

James and Alistair stare at him. Slowly, James clambers off of Alistair’s desk, where he’d been perched over the writer, “Are you alright? Why are you breathing funny?”

“Because I ran,” Harry snaps. He doubles over, hands on his knees, and takes a minute to pant, gasping in oxygen. It’s a bit embarrassing, running away from Hamish twice. At least he managed to leave the workshop normally before he broke out into a sprint. He straightens up again and says, “James, you have to help me. I think he’s coming on to me.”

James exchanges a glance with Alastair, who looks passively amused. Slowly, he says, “I thought that was what you wanted.”

“I was supposed to seduce him,” Harry says. “Not the other way around! Now it’s all moving so fast, and he thinks I’m strange but it seems like he doesn’t think that’s a bad thing and-”

“Harry,” James cuts him off. “Breathe.” He crosses the room and puts his hands on Harry’s shoulders, “What, exactly, is wrong with this situation? You like him, right?”

“Yes.” Of course he likes Hamish. He likes Hamish entirely too much.

“And you think he’s attractive?”

“Of course.” He’d have to be blind not to.

“And you want to sleep with him?”

Harry sighs. “Yes,” he admits. He doesn’t mention the fact that he’s well on his way to wanting more. He feels like he’s on a train, barrelling towards a brick wall, knowing he’s about to crash and unable to do a thing to stop it.

James doesn’t pick up on it, because all he says is, “Then what’s the problem? If he’s coming on to you, it means you don’t have to do the work, and you don’t have to wait to make sure that yes, he understands sleeping with the staff is not required in order to stay.” He throws a sidelong glance at Alistair, whose expression does not change. He doesn’t even bat an eye. James clears his throat and continues, “He’s doing the hard part for you. Let him. You’ll have a lovely month of him shagging your brains out, and then you can move on, yes?”

“When have you ever known Harry to move on?” Alistair comments wisely.

Harry looks at him. Alistair picks up his teacup off the desk and sips calmly, holding his gaze. He’s right, of course. Harry still hasn’t even entirely let go of Mark, his childhood crush (he’s over him, of course, but the feeling of attachment still lingers).

James knows it too, because he sighs. “Do something or don’t,” he tells Harry. “You don’t need us to tell you the pros and cons. Just make up your mind, because no one deserves to be strung along.” Again, he glances at Alistair, whose eyes widen a fraction before he busies himself with skimming over his papers.

Harry nods. Make up his mind. He can do that.

***

Harry likes watching Hamish work. He has surprisingly gentle hands, considering how large they are. Whether he’s sketching with his pencil, arranging bits of circuitry, twisting up wires, or brushing his fingers against Harry’s whenever he asks him to pass him something, his touch is sure but soft.

Hamish doesn’t seem to mind his presence, but Harry brings him gifts of coffee and keeps silent most of the time, just in case. He doesn’t know if it’s better or worse than being talkative; Hamish rarely initiates conversation, and the artists Harry has known don’t like to be interrupted while working. Still. He’s not used to being allowed to sit in silence with another person. It’s a heady experience.

Hamish frequently hums under his breath as he works, little snatches of songs Harry don’t recognize, but he doesn’t dare ask about. If he keeps his mouth shut, he can’t say anything incredibly stupid.

“Do you want to have sex?”

Like that.

He doesn’t mean to blurt it out, but Hamish had shifted position, reaching up to stretch, and the motion had pulled his jumper tight across his chest, the hem rising just enough to flash a glimpse of skin above his waistband, and the words were out of his mouth before he could stop them.

Hamish looks over at him, startled, “Um…”

Harry hides his face in his hands, “Jesus Christ. Er, ignore me. I’m...I’m going to go now.” He hops off the stool that he’s been occupying and flees the scene, ignoring Hamish’s calls for him to wait. He hates this trend of running, but it’s really his best defence mechanism. Strategic retreat is sort of his thing.

He hides in one of the deeper twists of the hedges, concealed in the depths of his little labyrinth, digging into the soil with a vengeance, as if taking a trowel to the weeds invading his garden can somehow pull out the awkwardness that seems perpetually buried in his tongue.

It’s well over an hour before he hears footsteps, and he forces himself not to look up in case it’s someone else.

It’s not. “I thought I might find you here.” Hamish squats down, getting himself comfortable on the ground next to Harry. “Well, not here exactly, but somewhere in the gardens. Wasn’t easy to track you down. It’s like a maze out here.”

That is by design. “I’m sorry,” Harry says again. “I shouldn’t have said anything. It was incredibly inappropriate and-”

“Harry,” Hamish cuts him off. He waits until Harry has stopped stammering and then continues, “I was a little surprised when you asked, because I didn’t expect you to be so blunt about it.” He chuckles, “I suppose I should have known better. Blunt is really your style, isn’t it?”

“Er…”

“I thought I was sending you some pretty clear signals, Harry. You’re very attractive, and you seemed like you might be interested. Save for the running away bit. You always came back, though, so I thought I might still have a chance.”

“You do,” Harry says quickly. He looks up, “And I am interested.” Hamish is really very close to him, close enough that Harry can see the green of his eyes. Or perhaps it’s just reflecting off the shrubbery.

Hamish smiles, “I thought you might be. Or hoped, at least.” He adjusts his position to be more comfortable. “I don’t normally do this sort of thing anymore, just so you know. I’m getting a bit old for it.”

“Christ, me too,” Harry agrees. “Once you hit fifty, it’s like, what’s the point?”

Hamish laughs, “Aye. A one-night stand is more hassle than it’s worth, most of the time.”

“And what about a one-month stand?” Harry asks hesitantly. He knows what Hamish said, but he’s still worried he’s getting his wires crossed.

“Now, that’s a bit different.” Hamish’s eyes are glinting. “It seems awfully convenient, wouldn’t you say?”

“Very convenient,” Harry nods. His throat is starting to go dry.

“I’m not looking for a relationship,” Hamish cautions. “I’m a fairly solitary person, and I travel a lot. I’m not looking for a partner.”

“I spend more time around plants than people,” Harry tells him. “I’m not looking for anyone else either.” His idea of a perfect man is one who leaves him alone most of the time, or at least will let him sit in silence even if they’re together, or both. He knows most people don’t like that. Wanting a partner like that is a pipe dream, so he’ll settle for Hamish in his bed. Especially since it seems that’s exactly what he’s about to get.

“So we’re clear?” Hamish says.

“We’re clear,” Harry agrees.

***

Hamish, as it turns out, really is very good with his hands. Harry hasn’t orgasmed twice in the same night in over twenty years, closer to twenty-five if he’s counting correctly. He hadn’t even been sure it was still possible.

Hamish’s bed is as comfortable as his own. Harry takes great pride in the boarding house’s accommodations, and he’s never had anyone complain about the quality of the rooms. Harry lies back against the plush pillows while he catches his breath. Hamish is humming again, not a distinct tune but a sound of satisfaction. It’s not an unpleasant sound, Harry realizes.

The near-silence between them isn’t uncomfortable at first, but as it drags out Harry starts to worry. He’s not entirely sure how long he’ll be allowed to stay, and he doesn’t want Hamish to get irritated.

Before he can contemplate actually leaving, though, Hamish asks, “Why butterflies?”

“What?”

“You spend all your time out in the gardens, but you spend the most time in the butterfly garden. Why?”

“You noticed?” Harry can’t help the disbelief that creeps into his voice.

“Of course.” Hamish turns onto his side to look at Harry, who shifts position to match. “You’re worth noticing.”

Harry thinks it over. “I like butterflies,” he says. “I love taking care of the gardens, don’t get me wrong. It’s my favourite part of this job. There’s something very satisfying about nurturing something that can never leave you, watching it take root and flourish even as it remains in place.” He flushes, “I sound like a possessive idiot, don’t I?”

“No.” It’s a simple response, but it surprises Harry all the same.

He hesitates, and then continues, “I spend the most time with the butterflies because as much as I love the rest of the garden, it’s not going anywhere. The butterflies can come and go as they please, so every moment they spend in the garden is that much more precious.” It’s not a replacement for human contact, not by a long shot, but at least the butterflies always come back.

“Hmm.”

“What?”

“Nothing,” Hamish says. He smiles, “You’re a very strange man.”

“You keep saying that like it’s a compliment.” Harry really doesn’t understand it. He’s been strange all his life, and that’s never been a good thing.

“It is,” Hamish tells him. “It means you’re interesting.”

 That doesn’t sound right for multiple reasons. “I’m really not,” Harry says eventually. “I’m just a sentimental fool who’s been stuck in the same place for too long because he can’t bear to leave it.”

“Why not?”

“Because leaving things means moving on. And I don’t like moving on. Besides, there’s nowhere else for me to go.” The city is not an option anymore, and he doesn’t have anywhere else.

Hamish nods thoughtfully. “You know,” he says, “just because you leave a place, or a person, doesn’t mean they’re gone. You can still carry a bit of them inside you.” He shifts closer, “I travel for work. I do exhibits and shows all over the world. And I used to bring Olivia with me, when she worked for me, but now she has her own job, so I have to leave her behind. But because I love her, she’s always with me.” He nudges Harry, “Not to mention, there’s this lovely modern invention called the Internet that can keep people connected over long distances. Maybe you’ve heard of it?”

Harry shoves back playfully at the teasing, “I may live in the middle of nowhere, but it’s still the twenty-first century.”

Hamish laughs. “I’m just saying, there’s a difference between leaving something physically, and leaving it emotionally.”

“Speaking of leaving physically…” Harry sits up, rummaging over the side of the bed for his trousers.

“You don’t have to go,” Hamish tells him. “I don’t mind.”

Harry pauses, “You don’t?”

Hamish shrugs, “I’ll be up early, but you’re free to sleep here if you want. So long as you don’t snore.”

“Not that I’m aware of,” Harry tells him, and slides back into bed. It’s more than he expected.

***

“So how is he?” James asks eagerly over breakfast. “Is he good?” It’s very clear from his tone that he’s not asking about Hamish’s wellbeing.

“How on earth-” Harry cuts himself off and raises his hands in surrender, “I don’t want to know.”

“Alistair’s room is next to Hamish’s,” James tells him. “Apparently he was having a bit of trouble sleeping.” He grins, “According to him, it sounded like everyone else was having a good time.”

Harry buries his face. “Remind me to apologize next time I see him, please?”

Eggsy stumbles into the breakfast nook and drops into the nearest chair, reaching out for the plate of toast and fumbling until Harry pushes it towards him. He looks half-asleep, his hair in disarray and his shirt buttoned wrong, and when the collar slips down Harry can see several love bites decorating his neck. Harry glances towards James, who raises his eyebrows and take a sip of his tea, “Looks like Harry wasn’t the only one who had a good night.”

“Shut up,” Eggsy groans. He thunks his head on the table and whines, “Tequila’s cock is amazing. What the fuck am I supposed to do when he goes back to the states?”

Harry pities him. He reaches out and pats Eggsy’s shoulder in a gesture he hopes is comforting. “I’m sure you’ll manage,” he says awkwardly.

“He’s so sweet,” Eggsy mumbles. “Makes me feel special. And he’s the best shag I’ve ever had. How the hell do you move on from that?”

“Well, he’s not leaving yet,” James points out. “You’ve got a little time before you have to move on.”

Harry gives him a look, and then says gently, “Eggsy, you have two options. Draw this out and make it harder on yourself when he has to leave, or drop it now so you can be more prepared.”

“Yeah?” Eggsy lifts his head and challenges, “Which one are you doing, then?”

Harry flushes and opens his mouth, then closes it again. James snorts. “I’d like to point out, you both hardly know these men. Meanwhile, I’ve known Alistair for five years and _yet_ ,” he huffs, “I still don’t even know if my attentions are welcome.”

“Oh, they’re welcome,” Eggsy tells him. “He’d tell you to piss off otherwise.”

“Would he?” James asks. He gets that sappy look on his face, the one he always has when he starts to talk about Alistair. “He’s shy. He might not want to fend me off directly. I know I can be a bit much.” His expression shifts to worried again, “You don’t think-”

“I think Alistair is interested in you,” Harry tells him. “But I also think he hasn’t made a move because he’s not sure if you’re serious or not.”

James blinks, “How can he not be sure?”

“You flirt,” Harry says. “You make jokes. But have you ever told him seriously how you feel?”

James squirms in his seat. “Well, no,” he says sheepishly.

Eggsy sighs, “We’re a bunch of hopeless idiots, aren’t we?”

Harry hums in agreement.

***

“Careful!” Hamish calls the moment Harry opens the door to the workshop. “Working with open flame today.”

Harry closes the door behind him and moves a little closer. Hamish hasn’t even turned around to check who it is. Not that Harry imagines he can see much through his mask. “So let me get this straight-” he says.

“Oh, never do that,” Hamish laughs, setting down the miniature blowtorch he’s holding and flicking up the welder’s mask.

Harry smacks him lightly on the arm and continues, “You brought, not only an actual blowtorch-”

“A small one!”

“-but a welder’s mask as well, just on the off chance you’d actually be able to use it?” Harry finishes.

“Well, I wanted to be prepared.”

“It’s huge.”

Lesser men might have made a crude joke, but Hamish just shrugs, “I’m used to working with larger pieces. The full mask is less risky than the smaller glasses options, and I’m rather attached to my eyebrows. Not to mention the rest of my face.”

Well, it is a good face. Harry looks at the pieces laid out on the table. They’re blocky, and they definitely don’t resemble a butterfly. “Practicing?” he asks.

“Sort of,” Hamish tells him. He picks up the piece he was working on in his glove-clad hands and holds it up so Harry can see it better. “I’m not onto the butterflies yet. I’m giving myself a refresher on how to make plants.”

“Plants?”

“What butterfly garden is complete without plants?” Hamish asks. When he turns the piece, Harry can sort of see the flower shape. “It’s been awhile since I’ve done anything like this. Normally it’s grass and things like that.”

“I looked up some of your work,” Harry tells him. “You’ve very good.” He especially likes the seal, which actually moves, diving through waves made mostly of glittering CD shards.

Hamish gives him a crooked smile, “You thinks so?”

Harry nods, “You’re very creative.”

“I try.” He sets the plastic down and tugs off the gloves, tossing them casually onto the table. He grabs Harry’s hips and pulls him in close, “So. Did you just come down to see me work, or…?”

Harry blushes, “I don’t want to interrupt you.”

Hamish leans in close and murmurs, “It’s a welcome interruption, believe me.”

Harry allows Hamish to close the distance, and he kisses back with equal fervour.

When he leaves the workshop, he passes Alistair on his way to the duck pond. The writer lifts an eyebrow, and Harry turns beet red. “Terribly sorry about last night,” he says.

“It’s quite alright,” Alistair tells him. “I’m glad things seem to be working for you. Just one request?”

“Of course,” Harry tells him.

“Next time, invite him to your room, please?”

Harry’s blush deepens, and a smile plays at Alistair’s lips as he continues on his journey.

***

JB whines and scratches at the dirt, trying to get Harry’s attention, but he only pauses briefly to scratch the pug behind the ears and give him a treat before he returns to his task, and JB flops onto his back and lets out a long huff.

“If you want a belly rub, I’m afraid you’ll have to ask Eggsy,” Harry tells him.

“I don’t know,” a shadow blocks out the sun, and Harry looks up at Hamish, who is grinning down at him. “The lad seems a little young for my taste, and I heard he and Tequila were involved, but if you think he’d be up for it…” He’s clearly joking and Harry smiles faintly at him.

He goes to stand, but Hamish shakes his head, “Don’t get up on my account.” He settles himself on the grass next to Harry, idly giving JB the belly rubs he’s been begging for.

Harry digs another weed out of the flower bed and adds it to the pile. “What brings you out here? Shouldn’t you be working?”

“I wanted to watch you for a change,” Hamish tells him. “Besides. The butterflies can wait another day. They’re not going anywhere.”

They sit in silence for a moment as Harry works, more focused on doing his job than making small talk. Eventually, Hamish asks, “Would you like some help?”

Harry shakes his head, “I’m fine.”

“You sure?” Hamish asks. “I feel stupid just sitting here watching you do work.”

“You don’t have to,” Harry tells him.

“Do you want me to leave?”

Harry pauses. He looks up at Hamish, who seems quite comfortable on the ground. JB has climbed into his lap for more petting, and Hamish cradles the dog like he weighs nothing. Hamish has lifted Harry with the same apparent ease, so Harry supposes the pug is feather-light to him. “No,” Harry says. “Not if you don’t want to.”

Hamish smiles, but it’s hesitant, “You don’t think it would be weird? Me staring silently at you?”

“No. Why would it?” After all, Harry does the same.

“Most people don’t like it.” And doesn’t Harry know it.

“I’m not most people,” he says.

Hamish laughs softly, “No, you’re really not.”

They lapse back into silence, but this is a comfortable one. Hamish pets JB and Harry weeds, and they spend the rest of the afternoon without saying a word to each other.

***

“I did it,” James announces. He struts into the room with the air of a man who has just won a lengthy battle. Harry looks up from his lepidoptery book. Eggsy doesn’t bother to move from the sofa, his head in Tequila’s lap with Tequila’s fingers carding through his hair.

“Did what?” Harry asks.

“I told Alistair I liked him, and I asked if he’d go on a date with me.”

Eggsy sits up, “That’s great, bruv! What’d he say?”

“He said maybe,” James beams, even as everyone else in the room blinks.

“Maybe?” Tequila repeats.

James nods eagerly.

Tequila glances at Eggsy, then at Harry, then back to James. “I know your Brits have a lot of weird ways of doing things, but you seem awfully excited about something that…”

“Might not happen?” Eggsy fills in.

“Exactly.”

“But it’s a start!” James says. “It means that he’s not completely disinterested in me.”

“Alistair's the writer, right?” Tequila asks. “‘Bout this tall, wears glasses? Pretty sure he and Roxy are related?”

“That’s the one,” Harry tells him.

“And you really think he might be disinterested?” Tequila raises his eyebrows. “Because I’m pretty damn sure he’s sweet on you. You’d have to be blind not to see it.”

“James and Alistair’s romance is a lengthy one,” Harry says dryly. “Someday they’ll both get the hint and then we’ll all be hearing wedding bells.”

James coughs, “Still in the room, thank you very much.”

“Chin up, bruv,” Eggsy tells him. “Maybe’s good.”

“Of course,” James agrees, although he looks less convinced now. Harry remembers James’s comment to him about being led on. His heart aches a little.

***

“Why didn’t you agree to go out with James?”

Alistair blinks at him. Harry knows this is a bit out of character for him - he doesn’t usually meddle in other people’s affairs - but he doesn’t want to see James miserable.

“What did James tell you?” Alistair asks after a moment.

“He said that he’d asked if you were interested in going out, and you told him maybe.”

Alistair nods, “I did.”

“Why? You like him, don’t you?”

“If I didn’t like him, I would have told him so when he started flirting with me. I would not have let it continue on for five years.”

“So what’s the problem?”

Alistair sets his pencil down and closes his notebook, pushing away from the desk so he can better face Harry. “James works here. I live here. I don’t want him to think I’m taking advantage.”

That wasn’t the answer Harry was expecting. “How would that be taking advantage?” he asks slowly.

Alistair sighs and pushes his glasses back up his nose. “I pay you to let me stay here. I don’t want James to think I expect anything differently just because we were involved.”

“I guarantee you he wouldn’t think that,” Harry tells him.

“But if he did-”

“Have you considered talking to him?” Harry asks. “You like him, and he likes you. It’s really not so difficult. All you need to do is have an honest conversation with each other about what you want.”

“Like you and Hamish are?” Alistair asks, eyebrows raised significantly.

Harry looks away, and Alistair says mildly, “We both know he’s more than just someone you happen to be having sex with. You like him.”

“And what if I do?” Harry sighs. “He’ll be leaving soon, and then it won’t matter whether I like him or not because he’ll be gone.”

Alistair folds his hands in his lap, lacing his fingers together, “When I first came here, I had horrid writer’s block, and I told myself that I would only stay long enough to get the creative juices flowing enough to start in on my next novel. And when I started to get into it again, I told myself I might as well stay until I finished it.”

“I know,” Harry says. “Although five years to finish one book does seem a bit extreme, considering how often I see you working on it.”

“I finished it,” Alistair tells him bluntly. “I finished the first draft three months after I got here.”

Harry blinks, “What?”

Alistair nods, “In five years, I’ve written an entire series.” He gestures to the notebook, “The one I’m working on now? It’s number ten.”

“You said-”

“I didn’t tell anyone I’d accomplished my goal,” he says. “Not even James. Because I was embarrassed.”

“Why would you be embarrassed?”

The faintest pink dusts Alistair’s cheeks. “Because I didn’t want to leave.” His expression turns fully serious again, “I love it here, Harry. Not just because it’s beautiful, because it helps me think, but because I love the people here. I love Roxy like a daughter, but she has her own life, and in the outside world there were very few people in mine. Here, you and James and Eggsy treat me like a part of the family. I know it’s just part of the service-”

“It’s not,” Harry interjects. He shakes his head, “For a great many people it is, but not for you. Not anymore and maybe not even in the first place.”

Alistair smiles and continues, “I wanted to stay because I liked being a part of that. I found a home here, not just in the place but in the people. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

He thinks so, but he’s not entirely sure how it’s relevant. “I want this to be your home,” Harry tells him. “And I know James does as well.”

“Not everyone will stay like I do, Harry,” Alistair tells him. “But that doesn’t mean this can’t be their home too.”

Harry doesn’t know what to say to that, so he opts for studying the floor instead. “Talk to James,” he says. “Tell him about all of this. About how you feel.”

“I will,” Alistair says. “And you might consider doing the same for Hamish.”

That is something that Harry cannot do. He can feel dread pooling in his stomach just thinking about it.

“Maybe,” he says.

***

“You know I’m leaving in a week,” Hamish tells him.

Harry sits up in bed, the sheet falling to nestle in his lap. Hamish is sitting at the desk across the room, fiddling with bits of wire under the bright lamp. “I know,” Harry says.

“I’m almost done with the concept work,” Hamish adds after a minute. “Then I’ll have to bring it all together and build it properly.”

“Are you looking forward to having a proper workshop again?” Harry asks.

Hamish looks over at him. His expression is guarded when he says, “The workshop here is perfect. If I had all my materials, I’d hardly know the difference.”

Harry looks away, unable to face Hamish’s gaze. “Still,” he says. “It must be nice to get back to the familiar.”

“I suppose,” Hamish says. He goes back to fiddling.

***

“Hey babe. I miss you.”

“Aw, I miss you too, pumpkin.”

Eggsy pulls a face, “I know I okayed the pet names, but really? Pumpkin?”

“Sugar lips? Snuggle muffin?”

“Now you’re just trying to make fun of me,” Eggsy laughs.

“Me? Never.” Tequila laughs too. “I’m going a bit crazy over here without you, sweetheart.”

“Long distance ain’t bad, though,” Eggsy says. “We can do it.”

“‘Course we can,” Tequila says. “I just miss you something fierce, is all. Miss touching you. Kissing you. Pressing you into the mattress and-”

Eggsy coughs loudly and turns the screen, “Harry, say hi to Tequila.”

Harry snorts as Tequila scrambles, “Uh-”

“Hello, Tequila,” Harry says. He idly turns the page in his book. “You’re behaving for Ginger, I hope.”

“Yes, sir,” Tequila says. “She’s an excellent boss.”

Eggsy turns the laptop back towards him. “Maybe if you’re really good, next time you get a vacation you can come and visit me, yeah? Or I can come and see you. Always wanted to visit America.”

Harry watches Tequila’s face light up from the little sliver of the screen he can see, and he makes a mental note to give Eggsy a bit of a bonus and a few extra vacation days. He closes the book and stands, “I’ll leave you two to finish your conversation.”

“Nah, it’s fine.” Eggsy scoops up the laptop. “I’ll take this to my room.”

“Hang on,” Tequila says, and Eggsy pauses. “Is Merlin still there?”

“He leaves tomorrow,” Harry tells him. “Why?”

“Eggsy just said you were sweet on him, is all. You two talked about it?”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Harry says. “Goodnight, Tequila. Eggsy.”

He thinks about going to bed alone. It’d be better. A safety measure, already setting himself up to prepare for the wedge that’s about to be driven between them, cutting Harry out of Hamish’s life. It’s probably the wisest option, spending tonight alone.

But he doesn’t.

***

Harry doesn’t say goodbye. He knows he probably should, but he can’t bring himself to face Hamish one last time. He leaves a note with James at the checkout desk instead, just a little _good luck with your butterfly garden project_. He hopes Hamish will understand. After all, Harry’s not the only one who said he wasn’t looking for a relationship.

The night before they’d been quiet. That’s not unusual for them; they talk, yes, but not as much as Harry thought he might have to. Hamish allows him to be quiet. He doesn’t seem bothered by the lack of conversation the way so many people are. It’s nice.

“This has been good,” Hamish had murmured, curled up in bed, pliant post-orgasm and with Harry tucked under his arm. Harry had hummed in agreement.

“It was good to have you here,” Harry said a while later.

“I’m glad I came.”

And that had been it. Now, Harry hides in his butterfly garden and waits. From a distance, he sees what he thinks is Hamish’s car pulling away.

Olivia wanders by. She and Roxy don’t leave for another few weeks. Harry’s grown fond of the couple, and it feels safer than Hamish because Alistair is Roxy’s uncle, and the women have already promised to visit him more often, whenever they feel the need to get away from the crowded city. They’ll be back.

When Olivia catches sight of him through the flowerbeds, she pauses. “Merlin just left,” she tells him.

“I know.”

“He really liked you.”

“I liked him.”

Olivia comes over, squatting down in the dirt beside him. “You know,” she says, “it’s been a very long time since I’ve seen him this happy to be anywhere. He goes so many places for work, but he never gets to stay anywhere long. Even London has never really been his home.”

Harry makes a noncommittal sound. He doesn’t want to think about Hamish traveling. About him going away.

Olivia is quiet a moment longer, and then she says, “You’re an easy person to miss, Harry. Even when you’re standing in front of someone.” She straightens up, and Harry watches her leave, his brow furrowed in confusion.

This is another reason he doesn’t like talking to people. Too many bloody riddles. He doesn’t have the energy to parse out the meanings.

He makes it another hour before he finds himself wandering towards the structure Hamish had used as his workshop. He knows, of course, that it will be empty, but the knowledge doesn’t stop him from pushing the door open anyway, wandering into the tidy space. It feels so much bigger without Hamish in it.

The workbench isn’t as tidy as he expected, and he approaches it, frowning as he picks up one of the two little butterfly sculptures resting there. The one still on the bench is attached to a fake flower, but this one stands free. He turns it over in his hands, wary of the delicate wings, and then notices the note left beneath it.

 _These aren’t the best_ , it reads, as though they weren’t some of the most beautiful things Harry has seen _, but I thought you might like them. I’ve got the technique down now, so I wanted to leave them with you. These butterflies can’t fly away. They won’t leave, any more than your gardens could. - Hamish_

He runs his finger reverently over the note, then looks down at the butterfly in his palm. His heart turns over in his chest. Oh. He is royally fucked.

***

“Harry!” James calls from across the lawn. “You can’t keep sulking out here forever!”

“I’m not sulking,” Harry calls back. “And do stop shouting. You’ll frighten the butterflies.” He goes back to refilling the feeders, humming softly to himself. It’s a bit of a habit now, picked up from Hamish, and it’s just one of the many traces of the man that still lingers, no matter how hard Harry tries to banish him from his mind.

James picks his way across the dew-wet grass until he can stand over Harry, his arms crossed. “The butterflies can handle a bit of shouting,” he says, “and you’re not listening to me.”

Harry waves him off, “Go back to planning your wedding. I’m sure Alistair will have opinions on the tablecloths or something.”

“Very funny,” James says wryly. “Alistair and I have agreed we’re not getting married. Not with my track record.” He lifts his eyebrow, “You could call him, you know.”

“Call Alistair?”

James gives him a look, one that tells Harry he’s not in the mood for Harry to play dumb. “His exhibit just opened. Have you seen the pictures?”

Harry shakes his head. “They’re just mechanical butterflies,” he says. “Why would I need to see it when I have the real thing?” As if he didn’t keep the butterfly sculptures Hamish left him on his nightstand. As if he didn’t brush his fingers over the wings every night before bed, not consciously allowing himself to wish but doing it anyway, without words thought or spoken.

James plucks the container of butterfly food out of Harry’s hands and replaces it with his phone. “Read the article,” he says.

“You know I detest-”

“Tabloid nonsense, I’m aware. But I don’t think you’ll find this one nonsense. Just read it.”

It’s an interview. Harry skims it briefly, then pauses and scrolls back up a bit.

_“Inspiration is a tricky thing,” Grey tells us. “It’s hard to catch hold of and even harder to hold onto. A lot of my inspiration comes from things I’m passionate about. Computers. The natural world. The idea of blending man with nature in a new and unusual way.”_

_We asked him about the inspiration behind his latest work,_ _Eden._

_“Not the most creative title, I know, but it felt right. I started working on this project because I wanted a challenge, but what I found was even better. It’s a cliché, the struggling artist going out into the country and finding himself again, but I suppose it’s a cliché for a reason. I stayed in a boarding house for about a month, and it had the most beautiful butterfly garden. It was this little patch of paradise in the middle of nowhere. I spent a lot of time with the owner, and he cared so much about the gardens. That sort of passion is contagious, and it just fed the fire.”_

_He wouldn’t tell us where exactly this little patch of paradise was, but when asked if he had any intentions of going back, Grey laughed._

_“I might. If I didn’t overstay my welcome the first time around.”_

Harry looks up at James, who lifts an eyebrow. “Well?”

“He wants to come back.”

James gives him a look. “Of course he wants to come back,” he says, in that same tone he usually reserves for affectionately calling people idiots. “Why wouldn’t he?”

“We didn’t leave any ties,” Harry says. “I thought...I know he liked it here, but I imagined it was a passing interest.”

James takes his phone back and gestures with it, “You did read that part where he talks about how passionate you are, didn’t you? And ‘if I didn’t overstay my welcome’ is a pretty clear sign.”

“James…”

“He likes you, Harry. And you like him. So give him a sign back.”

Harry shakes his head. “I’m an antisocial eccentric who spends more time with plants than I do with people,” he says. “Hamish liked me because the sex was good. That’s all.”

James sighs heavily and lifts his eyes skyward, like he’s praying ‘give me strength’ to a god he doesn’t really believe in. “Eggsy just got off the phone with him yesterday.”

Harry stills. “What? Why?”

“Because he was making a reservation,” James says, and again, Harry can hear ‘idiot’ in his voice. “He’ll be arriving next week. Don’t mess it up this time.”

Harry opens his mouth and then closes it again. Finally, he says, “If you and Alistair change your mind about the wedding, you can have it here. If you want.”

“And your ten-person policy?”

“If you can manage to find more than ten people you want to invite between the two of you,” Harry says, “you can invite an entire army.”

James grins. “ _If_ we change our minds,” he tells Harry, “we won’t need an entire army. Just our family.” He squeezes Harry’s shoulder and lets him get back to the garden.

***

Harry doesn’t talk to guests. That’s what he tells himself so he doesn’t feel like a coward, hiding out in his room when he catches sight of Hamish stepping out of his car. His first instinct was to go to the gardens, to hide among the butterflies and flowers, but if Hamish is looking for him, that’s the first place he’ll go.

Harry isn’t sure he wants to be found.

“You can’t hide in here forever,” Eggsy tells him through the door. “He’s been here two days, Harry. He’s been asking about you.”

“What did you tell him?”

Eggsy gives an exasperated sigh. “We said you weren’t feeling well and that you probably shouldn’t be disturbed.”

“Thank you.”

“You should have seen the look on his face. All disappointed. Asked if there was anything he could do to help.” Eggsy’s pause is loud. “Why don’t you want to see him?”

Harry curls up a little tighter where he’s sitting on the floor, back pressed against the door. He rests his forehead on his knees, arms wrapped around his legs like they’re the only thing holding him together. “Seeing him leave once nearly broke me,” Harry whispers, an admission he hardly allows himself to think and all the more difficult to force out for it. “I don’t know if I could handle seeing him leave again.”

Eggsy is quiet for a long moment. Then he says, “He came back, Harry. In the end, isn’t that more important than leaving?”

Harry doesn’t want to answer that, so instead he says, “You should go. I’d hate for you to miss your flight.”

Eggsy lingers on the other side of the door for another few beats. Finally, he sighs again. “I’ll see you in a couple months, yeah?”

“Have fun.” Harry can’t make himself get up off the floor to give Eggsy a proper goodbye.

Everyone leaves.

As if reading his thoughts, Eggsy says, “I’m coming back, Harry. I’ll always come back.”

***

In spite of his best efforts, Harry really can’t stay in his room indefinitely. After a while it turns claustrophobic, and he starts to feel the desperate need to get outside, back into his gardens where he belongs.

Five days after Hamish’s arrival, he emerges. He creeps through the house, turning sharply the other way every time he hears voices, and so it takes him longer than usual to escape to the grounds, but the moment he gets outside it is a literal breath of fresh air.

He takes off his shoes and socks just to feel the grass, wet with dew, under his feet. When he gets to the butterfly garden, he coos, “Did you miss me?”

“Aye. I did.”

Harry spins around, inhaling sharply. Hamish is on the ground, shirtless and in loose tracksuit bottoms, folded up into a yoga pose that doesn’t look the least bit comfortable. He untwists himself and gets to his feet. “Hello, Harry.”

“Hamish.” Harry swallows hard. “Are you enjoying your stay?”

“Not especially,” Hamish admits. “Turns out, as much as I love this place, I love the company more. Are you alright? Eggsy said you were ill.”

Harry opens his mouth and then closes it again. “I’m fine,” he manages eventually. “Just...needed to be inside a while.”

Hamish chuckles, “I’m sure you loved that.” He hesitates, and then asks shyly, “I know you’re not one for tabloids, but did you see the article? About the sculpture?”

“James showed me,” Harry says. “Eden. It’s beautiful.”

A flicker of something crosses Hamish’s face, and then disappears. Harry might almost call it disappointment. “So you just looked at it…?” Hamish asks. “Or did you…?”

“I read the article,” Harry confirms, his tongue rebelling against his common sense. “It was very interesting.”

“Interesting?”

Harry looks away. “Don’t make me do this, Hamish,” he pleads quietly.

Hamish takes a step closer, “Do what?”

“Do...this.” Harry makes a sweeping hand gesture towards Hamish, even as he won’t look at him. “Don’t make me want to ask you.”

“Ask me what, Harry?”

Harry sighs, and it comes out shuddering. He supposes he can blame it on the cool morning air, even if Hamish is close enough that Harry can feel the heat radiating off his bare chest. “Don’t make me ask you to stay,” Harry whispers. “I couldn’t bear it when you said no.”

“What makes you think I’d say no?”

Harry laughs, sharp and bitter, and it makes Hamish take a step back. “You make me think that,” he snaps. “We talked about this before. We’re not looking for partners, Hamish. We’re too odd, too inconvenient for anyone to love.”

“Are we?” Hamish asks. “Because I remember that conversation a bit differently.”

“How so?”

Hamish reaches out, his fingers curling gently around Harry’s shoulder, then sliding down his arm to take his hand. “I recall saying that I travelled a lot,” he says, “and that I was normally a solitary person. But it seems to me that you’re not much one for company either.” He waits several beats, and when Harry can’t stand the tension any longer he looks up at him. Hamish continues, “Do you remember what I said? About leaving a place physically, but not emotionally?” Harry nods. “Neither of us likes to be around people much. We’re odd. We prefer silence to speaking more often than not. You like your space, and I like my freedom. I need to travel for work, and you need someone who will always come back. Seems to me we’re well suited for each other.”

“I don’t like it when people leave,” Harry mutters, but it’s a weak argument.

“Yes, I left, Harry,” Hamish says. “But my heart never did, not really. You planted it in the soil with the rest of your flowers. It’s just been waiting for the right time to bloom.”

Harry holds it in for a breath, and then he gasps out, laughing in spite of himself, “Dear lord, that is cheesy.”

Hamish laughs too, “I thought you might like it.”

Harry studies him shyly. “You’re really alright with this? With me being...me.”

“There’s no one I’d rather you be,” Hamish tells him sincerely.

“But...you wouldn’t mind the quiet? Or when I need my space to the point where I don’t want you around at all?”

“Not if you don’t mind the same from me.” Hamish smiles. “I will have to go sometimes. I will physically get into a car and drive down that road. But as long as you want it, my heart will stay here. I’ll never fully leave. And I’ll always come back. How does that sound?”

Harry turns it over in his head. He weighs it against what he knows, what he hopes, and what he fears. Then he gives Hamish a little smile, “I think it sounds perfect.”

“Maybe not perfect,” Hamish allows. “But close enough.”

Harry kisses him.

***

Harry peels off his gloves, beating them lightly against his thigh to shake some of the dirt off, and wipes sweat off his brow. The summer sun beams down at him, and he knows the back of his neck will probably be burnt tomorrow. Still, it’s a small price to pay. The rains have churned up the soil, so everything smells like fresh earth.

He heads in the direction of the workshop for a respite from the heat and work. It’s only slightly cooler, but enough so that Harry feels the temperature change. Hamish is bent over his workbench, as he so frequently is. Harry drops a brief kiss on his cheek, and Hamish turns briefly towards him for a proper one on the lips before he goes back to work. He’s in the sketching phase right now. It looks like it’s shaping out to be some sort of deer.

There’s a pitcher of water, and Harry takes it and fills the glass Hamish isn’t using. Satisfied, he settles back on his stool, situated in the corner of the room, and takes a sip.

They don’t talk.


End file.
